


My ARTnemisis

by BlueBastard



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Needs A Snickers, F/M, I'd like to name this something more dramatic but I love puns so there ya go, Pre-STEM, Profanity, Reader and Stefano are both nasty and need to learn to be nice, Reader-Insert, Simple Writing Style, This fic is my putting them in a get-along shirt, brief pre-explosion Stefano, nothing is beta'd we die like men here, probably up to post-STEM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-02-05 17:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBastard/pseuds/BlueBastard
Summary: Stefano Valentini was a revered photographer. So were you. Meeting him had been by chance. It was a shame how things had transpired, really. You could have been friends --but he had to go and open his gaping asshole of a mouth.(Stefano Valentini/Reader)Chapter 4 is UP!





	1. A Brief History of Art (By Two Assholes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ey TeW dudes! How you doin? You want some artist rivalry! I got u fam!
> 
> EDIT: for some reason Tumblr.shite won't let this story into the tags, if you want to find it on there and give it some love it's right here: https://gottawritethatdarkshit.tumblr.com/post/167782225307/my-artnemisis-stefano-valentinireader

Stefano Valentini was a revered photographer. So were you. Meeting him had been by chance. It was a shame how things had transpired, really. You could have been friends.

You had both been featured in a magazine's article on the _People vs. Nature_ aspect of life and were expected to attend a soiree in honour of the success of the latest issue. The moment you'd laid eyes on him, you instinctually knew he was a total and utter cock. The over-dressed, stiff upper lip type. All Guicci, no content. Good-looking too, the bastard. He observed the crowd with disinterest, until his eyes found yours. You looked away, but the damage was done. The man crossed the wide-open floor with long strides, confident, almost arrogant in the way he carried himself.

“My name is Stefano Valentini, we shared a page in last month's issue,” he introduced himself, taking the palm of your hand in his and kissed it. You put on a polite smile and brushed the awkward feeling in your gut aside.

Maybe it was the air about him, or the rumours of his short-tempered nature. You couldn't say, but something about him made you apprehensive, uncomfortable. “Charmed,” you said, sarcasm bleeding through in your words. You eyed him curiously over the edge of your champagne glass, making no move to give your name as he already appeared to know who you were.

He smirked, a devious gleam shining in those bright blue eyes. “I saw your pitiful work displayed next to mine and told myself: 'I simply must know why they deemed this person worthy in comparison to myself!' I must say I'm surprised. I would imagine a beautiful creature such as yourself would have at least an inkling as to what true art looked like.”

A second passed and then another, before your face flushed red with rage. “E-excuse me?” You tried not to sound upset, but failed once you saw the satisfied, smug look on his face.

“Your work,” he said, the tone of his voice significantly darker and less friendly than before, “it's a stain on an otherwise impecable article.”

That's when the spark between you _'exploded,'_ in the less than agreeable sense of the word. The grip on your glass tightened, as did the line of your jaw. This art school bourgeoisie motherfucker was going to get it. You took a deep breath, painfully aware that several heads had been turned at the commotion. “Listen here, you _third rate, Richard Avedon knock-off, son of a_ \--!”

If only you hadn't gotten such a rocky start.

 

_***--_*_--*** _

_***** _

After years of bumping into each other at similar events, it became something of a game to go to the other's art show and critique the works on display with comedic disdain. What started out as playful jabs and honest advice soon became an all-out war. Behind the jokes and wit, genuine venom as well as malice reared their ugly heads. Galleries were your battlefield, reviews and ratings the ammunition. It didn't help either that your styles were wildly different. While your art was vibrant and colourful, his was dark and gritty, and completely conflicted with your vision of creativity. The feeling was mutual, you discovered.

It was opening night for your portrait series on the coming of age of young women. The collection featured numerous pictures ranging from simplistic and abstract compositions, to eleborate outdoor shoots with colourful props and natural lighting. Any critic would have noticed its striking difference with Valentini's work. It was fully intentional, of course. You wanted to see his reaction. It was an unspoken thing but everyone knew of your feud with the photographer.You found his greyscale art boring and uninspired, and he disliked the 'candid' aspect of your portraits. Said it was a childish way of capturing the essence of human beings. You told him that if you ever intended to capture a child's image, you would ask him to model for you. He had scoffed at that, visibly offended. The man was so full of himself and you knew just how to push his buttons. The public, critics included, loved the drama. It was good for sales too.

Naturally, Mr. Valentini showed up to the event and spent a good minute staring at one of your favourite pieces. You watched from afar, certain he was already tearing it apart in his mind. It was the image of a girl, floating weightlessly on a tire-swing in an blue-orange sky, hair flowing in the wind, eyes closed --dreaming of a better tomorrow. It was the image of adventure and the nomadic lifestyle, everything you stood for, and everything Mr. Valentini hated.

When impatience got the better of you, you snuck up behind him. “See anything you like, _confrère_?” you asked, a phrase Stefano had learnt to dread. It meant you were ready to debate. You had been waiting for him this time.

“ _Absolutely_ _not_. I think I've made it abundantly clear that I despise your _'art,'_ if you can even call it that,” he replied, his voice exotic and unwavering as ever. His pristine blue eyes narrowed at the canvas, scrutinizing it. “Did you get your degree from the back of a cerial box, _mia dolce_? I feel like this is an even worse travesty than your last showing.”

His remark about your education had you gritting your teeth. That Italian bastard was well-aware that you had never attended art school. It wasn't just a jab at your art, it was a jab at your plebeian heritage. Snobbism at its finest. “That would imply you actually liked my last exhibit, which you didn't.” You said, keeping your cool as best you could.

Stefano tutted you, as if you were a child in need of a scolding. “Are you saying you were _proud_ of that garbage?” He sounded convincingly flabergasted and the way his judging eyes roamed your features tipped you over the edge. If he was going to be a rude prick, you could match that in kind.

“ _I still am._ Whether or not your small-minded, uninspired vision can comprehend the complexity of my work is not my concern, but yours. You think anyone cares about your boring realism?” you snapped. “You don't envision anything, you look and copy. Your most famous works are somber mockeries of events that you were only a bystander to. The credit belongs to those who are actually in the arena, Mr. Valentini. Those soldiers you follow around like a lapdog, _THEY_ are the artists, not you.”

The man threw his hands up, face burning with anger. For once in his life, the great Stefano Valentini, was at a loss for words. “Philistine!” he exclaimed eventually, storming out of the building with heavy feet. You had won this fight, but he would be back.

Harsh comments and snide remarks aside, you had a certain respect for Mr. Valentini. Not that you would ever openly admit it. It took bravery to go into a war-zone, unfazed by the dangers to capture the scene and preserve it for future generations. For that you commended him, silently, behind closed doors where no one could hear you. God forbid someone would catch you praising that stuck-up prick. You'd never hear the end of it.

As the evening progressed, you forgot all about Mr. Valentini and his complete lack of creative skill. You went on promoting your exhibit, mingling with critics and art-lovers alike. Meanwhile, your rival prepared to leave on a journey that would change his life forever. It wouldn't be until a few months had passed that you would hear the news: Stefano Valentini had been injured on the job, and would be retiring from his work as a war-photographer.

_***--_*_--*** _

_***** _

The army was holding a gathering to celebrate the troops' return and Mr. Valentini's work would be displayed there. The final collection of warfare photographs. As the life-long thorn in his side it was only natural that you attend. At least, that's what you told yourself. For the last couple of weeks the Italian artist had been plaguing your dreams. The image of him being injured in the field left a sour taste in your mouth and for the longest time you could not figure out why is affected you so.

Then one night it hit you: the fear that Mr. Valentini had taken your words to heart. You had accused him of using the glory of others to make a name for himself, what if your words had pushed him into danger? What if you were the reason he'd gotten hurt? Unlikely. But you felt responsible, regardless. That was the real reason for your appearance tonight.

You waded through the crowd of veterans and militairy officials, the elegance of your being making you stand out between the freshly pressed uniforms and dull cocktail dresses. Like a speck of vibrant colour in a sea of black and white. Perhaps blood red lace was not appropriate for such an occasion, but you were an artist. Flair and drama was in the job description.

An older gentleman, decorated with uncountable medals and stars, called attention to the stage. A couple of cleanly shaven young soldiers stood in a line beside him. They were recieving some kind of reward for their service, it seemed. You had a hard time finding your will to care, as one face was missing from the crowd: the Belle of the Ball. Mr. Valentini himself had been strangely absent all evening.

You made your way to the back of the room, to the now abandonned photo gallery. With all the attention turned to the stage you finally had the time to inspect his latest work. You don't know what you were expecting, but it seemed like it was just more of the dry cut bullshit you'd seen before. The works had his name written all over it, and you were not impressed. The nausiating feeling in your stomach began to subside somewhat. All your worry and guilt had been for nothing. It was a relief to see that the accident had not changed the man.

That impression, however, wavered quickly when you spotted a certain photo off to the side. It showed a soldier being swallowed whole by dust and smoke coming from a surrounding explosion. The image pulled at your gut and took your heart, squeezing lightly. You saw hope dashed to pieces, you saw pain and mourning. The elegance of the shot almost glorified the dark reality that that man was now nothing more than a memory. It was beautiful and inspiring. And you hated it.

“This is the photo that took one of my eyes,” a familiar voice sounded behind you. You did not turn to look, you knew exactly who it was and the image still had you mesmerized. “The moment of death, captured like a fly in amber. And I lived to show the world.” You felt his presence move to stand beside you. A content sigh escaped him, like he was looking at his Mona Lisa, his The Kiss --his Starry Night. His Magnum Opus.

Silence followed. Mr. Valentini seemed different somehow and it bothered you. You had no words to describe this feeling. He was waiting for a response, for a snarky remark, but you had nothing. You turned to look at him, eyes widening when you noticed the bandage covering his right eye, his words finally catching up to you. His sight had suffered permanent damage --his sense of depth was ruined. And it was your fault.

His gloved hand found your cheek, the coarse material dragging down your face in an almost teasing manner. The physical contact almost made you recoil, but the nature of the photograph had left you vulnarable and open to comfort. “Guilt is not a good look for you, Miss (L/n),” he said, a smirk growing on his lips. “But the defeat on your face is absolutely delicious. I'd recognize that look of admiration anywhere. You _like_ this photo. And how could you not? I'm afraid you've been bested, _mia dolce_.”

You closed your eyes to collect yourself and knew that bastard was basking in the glory of this victory. But you couldn't let him have it. “It's pretty,” you admitted, stepping back, far out of his reach. “But you're still unoriginal. Yet another picture of someone else's great deed...that part, I am not impressed with.”

Before he could retalliate, you made yourself scarce. You did not want to stick around for the tantrum you had undoubtedly caused by insulting his favourite piece. His injury had changed him. He wasn't just an art prep with an attitude anymore, no --now he was an art prep who thought _he deserved that attitude_. It seemed you were just destined to fight this out forever.

 


	2. A State of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Valentini is back. Meanwhile you're struggling with art-block. Mistakes are made and things go from bad to worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: I am blown away by all the love the first chapter recieved! The way this story is going, it's shaping up to be my most popular one and I intend to see this through! Thank you so much to everyone who left a comment or dropped a kudo! You guys are the reason this chapter is out today! 
> 
> Not gonna lie, most of this chapter is setting the scene for the first story arch. I'm a bit slow on the uptake, but I hope you guys find this interesting enough to stick around.

After the incident at the army's exhibit last month, you had taken a break from tormenting Mr. Valentini and he seemed to return the favour. For that you were grateful. This break was partially for your own sake as well. That picture had awakened something in you. You were restless ever since you had first laid eyes upon it. It drove you to a state of madness that could only be cured by one thing: creating a masterpiece.

The very next day you called some of your best models to your studio. Well, it wasn't so much _'your studio'_ as it was one of the best studios in Krimson City that rented out spaces for photoshoots. The rooms were spacy and had ceiling high windows that allowed for more natural lighting. You could easily construct or otherwise move your equipment, and the elevator came up right to the space you occupied: no pesky hallways to drag tripods through or unwanted onlookers. It was perfect. Needless to say, you had a yearly subscription and always renewed your contract.

Unfortunatly, after weeks of slaving away, you were still no closer to creating your crown jewel. Your models were over-worked and complained a lot, but you would not be satisfied or deterred. You'd slept on the couch here more nights than you could count, but in the past month you had hardly left the building at all. Meals were delivered, you used the lavatory to stay somewhat presentable and had your mail brought to you by a friend. It was madness, but you couldn't help it.

You had been upstaged by the one man you swore would never get to you in that way. It wouldn't stand: you wouldn't allow it. If you rolled over now, Mr. Valentini would get exactly what he wanted: every single one of your nay-sayers on his side and the upper-hand. The critics would have a field day tearing you down in the press if they found out you had thrown in the towel. They fed off this feud like a pack of hungry wolves, and if you didn't feed the beasts --you'd be on the menu next.

In the meantime, your appetite for the freedom of expression had grown rampant. There was only one teeny-tiny problem: art block. You paced back and forth on the studio floor, as you had done many times in the past month, waiting for an epiphany. It was like your creative spirit was held under lock and key. No matter how hard you tried, how much you experimented: your art could no longer satisfy your expectations. It was infuriating. You tried different lighting, you tried new models, you tried leaving the props behind --adding more props, too. Nothing was to your liking. You were exhausted and nearing your limit. On top of that, one of your models hadn't shown up today and you were _livid_.

“What do you mean, Emily's not coming?” you asked the other girls. Tension rose. The air in the room was so thick, you swore you could cut it with a knife.

One of the models, Andie, broke the silence and sighed. “You've been working us to death, ya know? Emily said she found a better gig and told me you could go fuck yourself. Can't say I blame her. You've been acting like a tyrant ever since Valentini returned to the scene.”

Your cheeks flared up. So much for professionalism! “And she didn't think to discuss this with me?! Why didn't the agency notify me?” Your foot was tapping the floor impatiently --and while you didn't seem to notice your hostile appearance, the girls seated on your couch certainly did. Two of them wouldn't even look at you: Sofia and Trish had their eyes fixed on either their lap or shoes instead.

Andie tossed a lock of her curly brown hair over her shoulder and fixed you a tough, defiant glare. Alas, you were unimpressed by her mild act of rebellion. “You're kind of a massive bitch when you're mad, sweetie. I think Em just didn't wanna deal with that.” A quiet symphony of agreement came from the other two girls and you had to stop yourself from bursting out at the betrayal. There was truth to her words, you knew that, but their lack of expert attitude made it hard to take them seriously.

You weren't going to yell. You wanted to, though. Their imagined plight was nothing compared to what you had been through to get to this point. They would never understand your struggle. Being an artist was hard enough, even with connections and the proper diploma. You had none of those and had to fight your way to the top from the very beginning. Dirt-poor and nameless, every day had been a battle against the business!

Everything you had achieved, you owed to yourself. You never depended on anyone to carry you, and this was exactly why. People were so fickle. The moment life got a bit tougher, they chickened out. _So what if they had to come in twice as much as usual?_ How could they argue? You were their employer! If you said _'jump'_ it was their job to ask _'how high'_ and not to complain about circumstances. Maybe it was time you taught them a valuable lesson. “Get out. All of you.” You set down your camera and waved them off.

“No shoot today?” Sofia perked up, relieved as she stood to gather her things --one foot practically out the door already. So eager to leave. It was disgusting. These ladies had no respect for you or your work.

You turned away and fumbled into your pockets to find your cellphone. “I don't think I was clear: _you're all fired_.”

The girls stopped dead in their tracks, mortified. You had said it with such a calm and poised tone --they could hardly believe their ears. A fearful silence fell over them. Krimson City was not the best place of a model to break through and only a handful of ladies ever got commissioned for long periods of time by the same artist. It was considered a blessing. There was no way you would actually fire them, right? You'd always been patient and kind!

You took a breath, having finally connected to the modeling agency's office. “I'd like to terminate several contracts. Yes. Andie Ménez, Sofia Dalton, Trish Vils --oh, and Emily Lewis. Yes. No, I will no longer be commissioning them.” There was a pauze as you listened to the employee on the other side of the line. “ _It doesn't matter why._ It has to go on record? Ugh, _fine_. They can't handle the pressure that comes with the job, their attitude is lax at best and I'm simply tired of them...Good-day to you, too.”

The gravity of the situation finally set in. They panicked. Andie, whom had previously seemed so confident, became deathly pale and stuttered, “W-What? You can't do that! This is my job! I-I have mouths to feed!” She was fuming and visibly shaking. Sofia had sat back down and stared at the wall, motionless. Trish cried, but you didn't care. Life was unfair and it was high time they realized that.

“That's not my problem anymore, now is it? I'm sure that if Emily found a better job, so can you. Now leave, your replacements will be coming in soon. Good luck.” Your words would leave a permanent stain on their resume. They brought this upon themselves; you felt no guilt doing what needed to be done.

Andie was the last to leave. She stood in the open doors of the elevator, holding back tears. “That stupid photo you're so obsessed with...That's a Valentini, isn't it? I told you your stupid game would get out of hand!” With that, the elevator doors closed and your 5-year partnership came to an abrupt end. She was the poster-girl for your last exhibit's main collection. The Tire-Swing Girl. You'd miss her.

In hindsight, you may have been a bit too harsh. You were tense, upset and obsessed with being better than that snob. But in this world, you had to be tough. You sighed. There was no room for error anymore, not when your reputation was on the line.

_***--_*_--*** _

_***** _

 

You were in one of the back rooms --alone together-- at Mr. Valentini's latest reveal party. Out of the goodness of your heart, you had decided on giving the artist's newest collection a chance. Seeing as he no longer went abroad to do his work and was confined to a studio like you, you figured it might be different this time. Besides, looking at art always helped you clear your mind and would hopefully get rid of your stubborn art-block.

And what did you see when you arrived?

Emily Lewis, the treacherous wretch, posing _(oh-so innocently!)_ on damn near every picture. You blood boiled. She had left you, _for him?!_ All good will went out the window then and there. When you spotted him mingling out on the floor, you'd immediately dragged the purple-cashmere-wearing prick to one of the abandoned rooms and slammed the door behind you.

“You _stole_ one of my girls!”

Mr. Valentini feigned a hurt look. You weren't fooled in the slightest. One of his eyes may have been covered with a medical patch, but the other still betrayed his mischievous intent. Clear as day. “Come, now. Don't be ridiculous! Poor Emily came to me,” he said. “From what I hear, you should have treated your models with a bit more respect. Did you really fire 4 of them at once? How cruel.”

Word traveled fast, it seemed. Hearing him say it in such plain words hurt. It was glaringly obvious that you had made a mistake. You'd pushed Emily towards him with your addiction to the craft. She went looking for a better place and found this bastard. That in and of itself was very telling of your behaviour during the past few weeks.

“They were holding me back...” Your defense was weak, but you couldn't bring yourself to be honest. Not in front of him. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

“Is that so?” Mr. Valentini sighed. His sharp blue eye studied you face curiously, like he was measuring the truth of that statement. He knew you were lying in an instant, but still did not look away. His mind had wandered elsewhere. A phrase or question was burning on his lips, you noticed, but he couldn't seem to voice it. You waited for a self-contented comment, but the photographer remained entranced. It was maddening. Just what was he searching for in your eyes?

“What?” you snapped.

The distance you had purposely put between you was gone before you had even noticed. “You're quite lovely when you're not yelling at me, you know? Perhaps, after you ruin your own career, you could come see me. I'm always in deperate need of more models. ”

“What's that supposed to mean?” You backed up, as if by instinct, and bumped into an office table. His hands found either side of you, resting on the wooden surface that blocked your escape. You didn't know if you needed to be angry or nervous. One thing was certain, however; if he didn't back off soon, you'd take the other eye for a trophy. He chuckled, delighted by the look of defiance in your eyes.

“It means you're poor excuse for an artist and a waste of all that talent.”

The doors to the exhibit halls flew open as Mr. Valentini made his way back into the crowd, not sparing you a second glance. It happened so fast, your brain needed a second to catch up. He was gone and you were left standing confused --and a little out of breath. The man had gone mad! Andie was right, this was getting out of hand.

Once you managed to collect yourself and to got back out there, you inspected the pictures one by one. There was improvement to his style, but nothing quite as stunning as the soldier's final moments. Emily was a good model, you had to admit, but she had a lot to learn. As for Mr. Valentini, well, it showed that he had a muddy sense of depth due to his accident. A minor flaw you were sure he could overcome in time. You stopped in front of a certain canvas, eyes narrowing. It was the image of a girl trapped in a silver cage, surrounded by beautiful white flowers. Barbed wire tied her hands to the bars of her prison, her blood painting the pure roses a morbid red. It was strangely poetic and romantic. It was very out of character for the Mr. Valentini you had come to know. You didn't recognize the model, but she looked familiar enough. You eyes drifted downwards, searching for the girl's credentials. The gold plaque on the bottom did not reveal much, it just read: _'Confrère' by Stefano Valentini, 2015_.

 

_***--_*_--*** _

_***** _

The new girls were inexperienced, but they would do. You were back at the studio, dashing from one model to another to adjust their position or otherwise drop some advice on them. Inspiration was bubbling and you were over the moon. Your curse had been lifted! Over the course of the past few days, your style had changed dramatically. While your work was still reminicent of the 18th century romantic period, your colour palette had dulled down a little. Instead of using bright colours to accentuate the depth of your work, you now chose to work with deeper shadows and a high contrast filter. You blamed a certain Italian photographer. Purple had made an appearance in your work as well, more than you would like. It reminded you of him.

Speaking of the unholy bastard --you glared at the ceiling-- you had a new upstairs neighbour.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The critics get their hands on Stefano in the next chapter. Nobody likes a critic, not even you.
> 
> Hey ya might wanna head over to gottawritethatdarkshit.tumblr.com I'm taking drabble requests so you guys got something to read while I work on these here chapters (￣ω￣)


	3. Your Work Ethic Sucks (Get Out of My Building) and Nobody Likes a Critic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader gets her first look at the real Stefano, but not everything is as it seems. A common enemy shows up in the shape of a critic. Elevator shenanigans. Bonding happens????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I merged two chapter ideas because neither of them worked on their own. I hope this isn't too confusing. I went through 4 re-writes and just got dizzy reading it over and over again. My chapter titles are Fallout Boy songs. That is all.

Tchaikovsky or not --you couldn't stand this torture any longer. You stormed towards the elevator. It was bad enough that he had moved into _your_ building --came into your sanctuary! Despite yourself, you had accepted this defeat and moved on. But this! _4 hours._ Mr. Valentini had been playing the same piece of music for _4 HOURS_. You all but slammed your finger onto the floor button. The doors closed and you began to ascend, thinking of how to approach the man rationally. You would just go in there, ask kindly to turn it down the song, and go back to work in peace. That, or you could choke the life out of him until he relented. It was up to him at that point. You took a deep breath. As you neared the floor above, the volume of the Serenade increased. It was deafening, but soothing. You weren't out for blood, you just wanted to settle things quietly.

The doors opened, and you readied yourself for the confrontation.

The first thing you noticed was how dark the room was. While you quite enjoyed the tall windows and natural light they provided, Mr. Valentini had used a black tarp to cover them up. The only lightsources were the spots in the middle of the room, placed on a centerpiece: a luxurious porcelain bathtub. A prop for his current shoot. Your eyes strayed further, taking in more of your dreary surroundings. The mannequins lining the wall to your left were a bit disturbing, but meant for storing clothing items and accessories, you reckoned. It was good idea. Better than your “bulking trunk of random unorganized props” anyway. Aside from that and a few paintings on the wall, the room was barren. Not odd, considering he had only recently started working here.

That brought you to another realization: you were totally and utterly alone in this place. The room was abandonned and, aside from Tchaikovsky, no one made a sound. While it was unnerving, it also presented you with an interesting choice to make. You had free game. After years of fighting the man at every turn, you'd become interested in the way Mr. Valentini worked. This was your chance. Did you turn around and leave, or would you sate your curiosity? You had to know what went on in that man's mind, and this was the perfect opportunity to snoop around and find out. Lift a tip of the veil and get a glimpse behind the curtains, as they say.

The possibility of getting caught never even crossed your mind. Besides, looking never hurt anyone.

His set-up would be a good place to start, you decided. You made your way over to where the bathtub was put on display. That was you first mistake. The closer you got, the more you realized something was wrong. The smell had hit you before anything else, but you couldn't stop yourself. Even the dried stains on the floor couldn't get you to change your mind. Morbid curiosity had gotten the better of you. Despite the voice in your head telling you to stop, you peered over the edge of the tub and recoiled at the sight. Your hands clasped over your mouth, muffling the yelp that had forced its way out. It was filled with blood! You backed up, ready to turn and make a break for the elevator when you bumped into something solid. A chill ran down your spine. You couldn't move.

“(Y/n)? What are you doing here?” It was Emily. Thank god it wasn't him. You let out a sigh of relief and turned to face her.

She was wearing a flesh coloured bikini and was covered with blood from head to toe. Not being able to put 2 and 2 together, you briefly wondered if she was hurt. The girl noticed the disturbed look you wore and waved her hand dismissively. “Pigs blood,” she explained, “from the local butchery. He's got buckets of the stuff in the supply closet. Doesn't bode well for me, now does it?”

“He...--he had you sit in a tub of pigs blood?” you asked, relief making way for amusement. Emily hated getting dirty for a shoot. Back when she worked for you, you had been understanding. It seemed Mr. Valentini was not as agreeable. You surpressed a chuckle, but it persisted and came out as a cheery sort of snort.

“Don't start,” Emily warned, giving you a stern, almost motherly look. “He's just as bad as you are. The same temper, too.”

“It's an artist's temperament. We're _sensitive_ that way,” you stated and shrugged. “Speaking of the devil, _where is_ Mr. Valentini? I have bone to pick with him.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Emily sauntered over to a dressing screen, disappearing behind it as the conversation continued. “He just went out to get some supplies.” The bloodied underwear was flung over the side of the screen with a wet splat, the excess dripping down onto the floorboards. “He said he's going to spend a few nights here to finish up some edits. I was just about to leave when I saw you sneaking around.”

“I wasn't--!” you tried to defend yourself, but it was no use. She caught you red-handed after all. You sighed and decided to change the subject before she became suspicious. “Well, in any case, I'm not waiting around for him to get back. Can you turn down the music? It's very distracting, I can't hear myself think down there.”

Emily peeked her head out, half-dressed in some sweats --still covered in blood. “ _That's_ why you're here?” she asked, looking a bit surprised. “Alright, but if I get an angry call asking why his music is off, I'm sending him to your doorstep, hun.”

“Fair enough. I don't care as long as I can continue my work in peace.”

Emily emerged, looking very casual for someone who had just bathed in pigs blood. She gathered her things and, as promised, lowered the music to a soft hum. “I gotta get home quick and wash this crap off before it starts to crust. Take care, (Y/n).” You took the elevator down together, said your goodbyes when you got off, and that was it.

Mr. Valentini never did show up at your doorstep. In fact, it would be a while before your paths crossed again. Weeks of silence passed and finally you recieved a formal invitation to Mr. Valentini's winter collection reveal. After what you'd seen in his studio, you didn't think twice about attending. Whatever he had been working on, it was going to be avant-garde and you couldn't wait.

 

_***--_*_--*** _

_***** _

Sergei Baskin was a vile creature. From his fat, balding head and beedy eyes to his not-so-professional opinion; he was rotten to the core. You disliked everything about the man and would do anything to never see his face again. Unfortunately, he was one of the toughest, rudest critics in the business and an art gallery regular. In his case, the 'c' in critic definitely stood for 'cunt'. You had been on the recieving end of his wrath many times --hence your dislike for the pompous idiot. This time, however, you were a mere bystander. You figured it would be entertaining to watch, but found yourself feeling sympathetic.

“You call this horror show art?! You, sir, are a fraud! A theatrical charlatan!” Baskin shouted. You frowned. Stefano Valentini was many things; a royal pain in your ass, a pretentious prick, or even a suave bastard --but his talent was no hoax! You'd seen his brilliance first hand and to see it dismissed like that was a shame. Granted, these pieces were _bloody_ and macabre, but still radiant and inspired. You bit your tongue, swallowing down an insult. There were people around. You couldn't be seen defending him.

Mr. Valentini was calm, collected, but you could tell it was only the eye of the storm. He said nothing; he knew it was no use. It wouldn't only make matters worse. The thing about Sergei Baskin was that you could not have a conversation with him. He showed up, had his say, and wouldn't listen to any kind of defense. He talked TO you, not WITH you. Baskin brandished a pen like a weapon and wasn't afraid to use it; the damage his articles could have on a career was devistating. You could defend yourself all you wanted, his word was law to the art community. It had taken you many sleepless nights to make a come-back after he'd torn you down before. You wondered how Mr. Valentini would handle this kind of backlash.

“Your career is over, Valentini! I'll make sure of it!” Baskin left, leaving a trail of slurs and half-witted remarks in his wake. The crowd that had formed around the spectacle dispersed, going back to sipping their cheap champagne and talk of politics. Against your better judgement, you approached him.

“Come to gloat, _mia dolce?_ ” Mr. Valentini asked. As much as he tried to hide it, he looked defeated. He expected you to take pleasure in what just happened. You could never. There was no worse feeling than having some nitwit slander what you had poured heart and soul into.

You feared that if you opened your mouth, something inconsistantly supportive might come out, so you just smiled and shook your head. “Baskin is an imbicile,” you mumbled. This time, it was your turn to leave him speechless and confused as you walked away and disappeared into the mass of bodies behind you. You were even now.

_***--_*_--*** _

_***** _

This was so cruel. You were so proud to leave him dumbfounded at that gallery, only to run into him again at the studio that very evening. Of all the people to be stuck in an elevator with, it had to be him. You glanced to the side, giving Mr. Valentini a once-over. He was holding a brown paper envelope and a fancy bottle of alcohol he had recieved as a gift at the opening. Rum or whisky, you assumed by the label --it was too dark to tell for certain. Ever since you'd gotten into the same elevator in the lobby, he had been silently staring at the doors, swaying on his heels. Impatient. So, when the power went out, you knew this was going to be awkward.

The silence was killing you, so you decided to break it. “The emergency power should kick in any second now.”

“Good.” _Ouch._ Good to know he was still feeling hostile. After a brief moment of quiet pondering, Mr. Valentini spoke up again: “The manager told me the emergency power only gets the elevator moving again, but the lights and central heating will still be off, is that correct?”

“Yes, unfortunately. This building is very old and this sort of thing happens often during the winter. It's not surprising it happened today, with that blizzard raging outside and all.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, already feeling the effects of the cold set in. “Looks like we'll be freezing tonight. I wish I had more blankets back at the studio.”

“Do you spend the night here often, _mia dolce?_ ” the man asked, an unfamiliar sincerity hiding beneath his words. He was wasn't mocking you, just genuinely curious this time.

“Some times,” you admitted. “More often than not, lately. I find it hard to go home and leave things unfinished. It just doesn't feel right to me.”

“I know what you mean,” He agreed. “You are dedicated to the craft after all.”

_Huh._ A compliment. You hadn't expected that. This whole situation had been strangely pleasant. In this moment, you weren't so much rivals --you were neighbours, caught together by forces beyond your control. Come to think of it, this was the first conversation you'd had with the man that didn't revolve around art. It was definitely a step up from snapping at each other's heels all the time.

“Ah there we go!” Mr. Valentini let out as the elevator buzzed to life and began to climb. With a 'ding!' the doors opened up to your floor. You felt almost disappointed it was over. Would you just go back to insulting each other when you stepped out these doors? Or was there a way you could work things out? It was a shame, really. Even if you didn't always see eye to eye, there was so much you could learn for each other.

“Well, this is my stop,” you said, “Good night, Mr. Valentini.” You took your leave, relishing in the newfound freedom that came with being released from the confines of the elevator.

This feud was a collosal waste of time and energy. It was drainging you. If today had taught you anything it was that you both just wanted the same thing: to create. The more you thought about it, the more you realized you wouldn't mind burying the hatchet and starting over. You doubted he felt the same way, though. With careful steps you started shuffling towards the couch in the dark. The familiar scrape of the doors closing was cut short by a thump.

Mr. Valentini had used his foot to keep the doors from closing and was leaning out. “Miss (L/n)?” You stopped mid-walk when he called your name. “Do you mind if I join you?” He held up the bottle and smiled. “We could share a glass, perhaps? No time like the present. It'll keep us warm.”

Maybe it wasn't so impossible after all.

 

 


	4. Birds of a Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Straight up, no-BS bonding. It's high time these assholes got along. We learn more about why Reader is the way she is, and Stefano shows a softer side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient with me on this one. This chapter is a very important point in the story and I wanted it to be perfect. Shout out to @two-murdered-men on Tumblr who INSPIRED the fuck out of me while I was fighting this writer’s block. Thank you!!

The bottle of brandy stood abandoned among the lit candles on the coffee table. Mr. Valentini had made himself comfortable on the couch, leaning back to watch the snow twirling down outside. The wild howled and banged against the windows but neither of you seemed to mind the ruckus. If anything this entire scene would have been considered cosy, if you weren't mortified by the fact that you were sharing a drink with a man you considered to be an absolute bastard. Until recently, that is. Now you weren't so sure anymore.

The first few drinks had been shared in silence but after a while the words just started flowing. Whenever the subject of art approached, you'd steer the conversation elsewhere. You were not in the mood to argue. Mr. Valentini respected your wishes for the most part and didn't push. You went from the weather to the state of the building, to your interior decorating choices: light conversation, nothing serious. Mr. Valentini was easy to talk to. Charming, too.

Of course, it was only natural that deeper topics should arise. You did not, however, expect this one to come up so soon.

“How _did_ you become an artist?” You froze up at the question. Mr. Valentini's eyes lit up, beaming with curiosity. He wasn't the first to ask questions about your past; it was a topic you had dodged many times before and would again in the future. “I don't think I know much about you at all, miss (L/n). Who were you before all this?”

You swirled the two-fingers worth of liquid around in your glass before downing the lot. You weren't usually much of a drinker, but you needed to calm your nerves. The burn in your throat distracted you just enough. Mr. Valentini gave you an amused but curious look. “That's... _a long story_.” You poured another drink and leaned back on the sofa, fingers nervously playing with the rim of your glass.

“Please, tell me about yourself,” he said. “We know so little about each other. All this time we've been fighting, _mia dolce,_ but all I want is to...” Mr. Valentini paused _,_ choosing the next word with care, “... _understand_ you, nothing more.”

If you were waiting for a sign that things could be better, this was definitely it. That, or he was garnering ammunition to use against you. This was your choice. A door had opened, all you had to do was walk through it.

You sighed and nodded. “I wasn't born in Krimson City, but... _somewhere else_.” Mr. Valentini ignored your vague answer and simply took a sip of his drink, eagerly awaiting the rest of your tale. You took this as a sign of good faith and continued. “When I was growing up people used to tell me I had a gift: I was creative and saw the world in a different light. I was special, they said. I doubt they actually knew what that meant, but it was important to me nonetheless.”

You spoke of how you took their words to heart and tried to pursue your fantasies --only to I hit a bump, after bump in the road. While you didn't feel comfortable discussing your past so openly, he made it easier. Mr. Valentini was entranced by your words, the sparkle in his visible eye encouraging you to continue. You had his undivided attention. Which felt unusual; he was the first to actually listen. You felt comforted by the idea that he cared. It inspired you to continue.

“I found out that following my heart meant going against everything the people around me had planned out for my future. So, I packed my bags and decided that if they wouldn't have me, others like me would.” Mr. Valentini let out a sigh, a glimmer of familiarity crossing his face. He _understood_. For the first time in your life, someone knew your pain. Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe this was a desperate attempt to connect to someone, but the flood gates had been opened and you couldn't stop yourself from talking anymore. All hesitation was forgotten.

  
“I went to Paris first and studied painting from a Belgian gentleman at Montmartre. In the months I spent under his wing he taught me everything he knew --until he decided to go back home, to his family. I hopped a train to Milan the next day --never looked back. When I arrived, I met a girl by the name of Elenora. She took me in and we made a living off of hand-made jewellery we sold to tourists. We struggled to make ends meet, but despite that, she managed to save up and bought me my first camera. It wasn't long before even she got tired of me too, though.”

You went on to describe many such relationships. The story was always the same: you got to a city, made a friend then drifted apart and moved on. You never spent more than 2 years in the same place. The lifestyle certainly suited you. You had nothing to lose, nothing to gain –just the entire world at your fingertips.

“What made you stay?” Mr. Valentini asked. He had moved closer to the edge of the sofa, knees touching yours. “You had had so many adventures, seen so many things--! The world was your oyster and Krimson City is hardly an exciting place to settle.”

The truth was you hadn't planned on staying longer than a month or two. What changed? You'd wondered the same thing many times before. Why were you still here, after all those years? You pondered the question for a moment, but the answer was glaringly obvious. It was staring you in the face, literally. “I found someone who had as much passion for art as I did. Someone who would do anything, and would stop at nothing to achieve their goals.”

The proverbial cat was out of the bag. Mr. Valentini grew quiet. The surprised but amused spark in his eye made you regret ever opening your mouth. Your brain yelled at you to stop, but your heart --and intoxicated mouth-- continued: “I used to despise your art, but I've always respected you. A-and I think you've improved a lot, lately. Your sense of depth is a bit muddied, but otherwise your work is stellar.” You muttered that last part, the courage you had gathered before depleting with every word you spoke.

There was a smile you had never seen before on his lips. You waited for a snarky remark, but instead he chuckled and shook his head in utter disbelief. “I want to show you something,” he said.

Mr. Valentini hesitated a moment, then reached over to the coffee table and retrieved the brown paper envelope he had been carrying earlier. “These,” he opened it, “are the first prints of my newest collection.” Mr. Valentini handed over some photos and you went over them in silence. He studied your face, reading your reaction. Your scowl spoke more than words could ever express. “They're terrible, I know.”

They were _blurry,_ if anything. You recognized Emily, wearing a blue dress with a beautifully detailed pattern, posing next to a vase of roses. The only problem was that the picture was out of focus and didn't capture her face properly, or the vase for that matter --or even the flowers. It was bad.

“What happened? A production error?” you asked.

“You could say that,” Mr. Valentini said. A grim look crossed his features. “It's...my eye. I can no longer see depth the way I used to, and it's getting worse...” He sighed, packing up the photos and sealing them back in the envelope.

“Does it hurt?” Mr. Valentini blinked, surprised. “Your eye, I mean.”

The man sat back and hesitated for a moment. He hadn't expected you to be so bold. This was very forward, even for someone who had been drinking. “Yes,” he answered, voice barely above a whisper. One of his hands reached up and covered the offending organ. “The doctors were unable to remove all of the shrapnel from the wound...it's...not pretty. An _imperfection_.” He spit the final word like it was venom.

“May I see it?” You bit your tongue, realizing what you had just said. Mr. Valentini stared back at you, perplexed --like he didn't quite know how to react. The silence was deafening. You felt like sinking through the floor. What were you thinking? He just told you he regarded it as an imperfection! Every good thing you'd said tonight, any progress you had made in trying to befriend him just went up in smoke. “T-that's probably very inappropriate of me to ask! I'm sorry. You hardly know me and--”

“It's quite alright, _mia dolce_ ,” Mr. Valentini said hooking one of his fingers under the edge of the medical patch. He removed the bandage, slowly, careful around the tender skin of his eye.

Even though some of it had healed, the wound was far from clean. The eye was dead. It did was devoid of all colour and no longer moved. Even when Mr. Valentini looked away from you, fearing your reaction, his injured eye stared back. The socket was scorched and reminded you of a tied knot of seared flesh and blood.

The pattern, while sickly, was a beautiful almost symmetrical swirl of colours “It's not ugly,” you said. Mr. Valentini let out an unbelieving chuckle at that, moving to cover the eye again. “I wish you could see it the way I do...” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him --but he'd heard anyway. Your veiled kindness caught Mr. Valentini off guard. It should, given your history.

“Don't be silly, _mia dolce_...who would ever think this is beautiful?” He said that, but didn't sound convinced anymore.

Mr. Valentini's mood was different after that. Like he'd had a change of heart about something. Aside from the usual meaningless banter, no further discussions arose. You tried to hold the conversation but his mind kept wandering elsewhere. The night progressed and the alcohol was beginning to wear out; you were getting sleepy. Somewhere between sips and yawns, you fell asleep. You recall waking to the sound of the elevator opening, a blanket you don't remember putting on draped over your form. And Mr. Valentini, walking towards the open doors, jacket slung over his shoulder and the envelope under his arm. Something else glistened in the glow of the lift's emergency power lights, but you could not make out its shape. You didn't care. Tonight was a success in you book and you could sleep soundly on it.

–

Your hand slaps onto the table desperate to silence the intrusive ringtone blaring in your ears. You miss several times, knocking over a glass in the process. When you do finally manage to pick up your phone you're feeling annoyed, and slightly hungover. A man on the other side of the line asks for you by name. He sounds formal. “Speaking, what is it?” you groan into the receiver, battling the oncoming headache.

“This is officer Connelly with the KCPD.” The policeman's voice became distant as you noticed a scrap of paper on the coffee table. It was a piece of the envelope Mr. Valentini had with him last night. A small note was made on it in beautifully eloquent handwriting. Curious, you tune out the droning of the man's voice and read the paper instead.

 

 

 

> _'I'd like to continue our discussion.  
>  Meet me in my studio at 4. I have a preposition to make.  
>  – S. Valentini'_

 

“Ma'am?” the officer's voice abruptly pulled you back to the here and now, leaving the strange note nearly forgotten. “Are you available later today?”

You blink, reorganizing your thoughts. “I'm sorry, what?”

“We'd like to ask you a few questions concerning the disappearance of one Emily Lewis. Can we send one of our detectives by your studio this afternoon?”

The blood in your veins freezes upon hearing Emily's name. Your brain goes into auto-pilot mode and you hear yourself confirm an appointment at 6 --all the while the real you is petrified. The news finally starts registering. The bottom line of the situation hits you hard; Emily Lewis is missing and the police want to talk to you. After taking down your information and address, the officer hangs up and you're left feeling empty. This was not the wake-up call you were expecting.

A million questions race through your mind, but one screams louder than the others: are you a suspect? You start to dread 6 PM with every passing moment, but then you remember Mr. Valentini's note and a more immediate question comes to mind.

_What does he want?_

–

You're standing in the centre of his studio where a new display has been built. The bath is gone and an antique chair is in its place, surrounded with red roses and barbed wire. It's bloodied and broken, but beautiful –though you have little interest in Mr. Valentini's composition choices right now. There are more pressing matters demanding your attention.

“I want you to be my eyes.”

You stared back at the man, mouth agape. “Are you—did you hit your head?!” you asked, unsure if you had heard him correctly. “You want _us_ to collaborate? You're joking!”

Mr. Valentini let out a chuckle. “No, I'm being sincere. I cannot work _like this_.” He pointed at the sticky patch covering his wounded eye. “Our conversation last night made me realize this.” You pace back and forth, mulling over his words. The artist takes your hesitation as a sign to speak again. “You will be compensated for your troubles, of course. And in the face of the public we can continue our hostile charade, if you wish.”

That last part caught your attention, and he knew it. “What do you want me to do, _exactly?_ ” you ask.

“Observe, mostly. Point out when an angle seems off, or when the picture is out of focus and otherwise assist me in the creative process.”

“And you trust me with this task, because?”

Mr. Valentini smirks, amused at you persistent hostility. He can't blame you for being cautious. If you knew his true colours, you'd be even more reluctant to join him --terrified even. “I don't have to trust you, _mia dolce_. I can rely on your honest, uncensored opinion and personal skill.”

“I can be as crude and to-the-point as I want?” He nodded.

This was it. The first step. You had ever right not to take it, but you wanted to. What intrigued you the most was the idea of your joined creativity becoming something breath-taking. The things you could envision together, that's what mattered. “You've got yourself a deal, Mr. Valentini.”

“Excellent! Please, call me Stefano. We will be getting to know each other _intimately_ after all.”

–

After leaving Stefano's studio, you felt lighter somehow. That is, until you walked into your own abode. Standing in front of the ceiling high window and looking out on the city was a man you hadn't seen in years, but recognized in an instant, regardless. You frowned. Of all the people in the world, the KCPD had to send _him_.

“Detective Du Motier, what a pleasant surprise,” you lied.

The man turned, a charming smile both on his lips and reflected in his eyes. His suit was freshly pressed, an elegant red tie fitting snugly around his neck --a striking contrast in style with the unshaven face and messy hair you were used to. “I'm glad you still remember me,” he said, a crude French accent swelling his words. “It's been so long, (Y/n). Paris, was it? Good times.”

Oh, you could already tell he was going to mean trouble.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've reached the end of this chapter, but fear not! We'll be back.
> 
> I post a lot of TeW over on gottawritethatdarkshit.tumblr.com and I was wondering if you guys would like me to upload those on here?


	5. A Little More ‘Us,’ A Lot Less ‘Them’

You were seated on the couch, wondering how this whole situation was going to unfold. Did you just start talking, or wait for him to ask his questions? He was a cop now so didn’t he have to identify himself first? You took a long hard look, not bothering to hide the fact that you were staring. It had been so long since you'd last seen him. If you recalled correctly, you left him standing at an airport gate as you left for Krimson City all those years ago. Well,  _ fled to  _ Krimson City, if you wanted to bother with the semantics of things.

He hadn't changed much. The man had straight posture --his broad, defined shoulders relaxing as he tucked his hands into his pockets. The dark grey three-piece clung to his body like it was tailor made, complete with a white dress shirt and red tie. You wouldn't put it past him to have a custom suit; Dominique liked things that were neat and flawless. A trait many Ex-Military seemed to share, you thought, recalling Stefano's admirable perfectionism. Yet despite being a stickler for appearances, Dominique had an unfortunately rough face. A persistent stubble always adorned his chin and there wasn't a soul on earth able to tame the messy locks of dark hair atop his head. This gave him a bit of a messy appearance --no matter how hard he tried to look professional. On his belt there was a brand-new police badge. You were about to speak and ask about his new profession when he beat you to it:

“Photographer, huh? I figured you’d ditch that career after Paris.” He let out a small chuckle, allowing his gaze to take in the state of your studio, fondly lingering on pieces he seemed to appreciate. “Care to tell me why one of your models is missing?”

You sighed. Right to the point, as always with Dom.

“Cops travel in packs,” you said, “...where's your partner?” Dom allowed you to ignore his question but took note of your snappy attitude nonetheless and filed the thought away for later. At this point, he was suspicious of everything that came out of your mouth. _ ‘Innocent until proven guilty’ _ was a bit of a redundancy in your case. He  _ knew _ you had something to do with this case. 

“He's outside.” The man nodded his head towards the window, glancing out to the street below where an inconspicuous car was parked across the street, his partner leaning against it with the bud of a cigar tightly pressed between his lips. “I told him to wait. I wanna get the chance to talk to you first.. _.as a friend _ .”

“I have nothing to do with this.”

“Sure you don't.” Dom backed away from the window and strolled over to lean on the armrest of the couch. 

You had a history of running into each other at inopportune moments and this was no exception. To you this was nothing but a coincidence, but for Dom, well he looked almost remorseful for being here --for being the one to put you on the spot. Again. Dom believed in the superstition that you had some kind of connection because of these run-ins --you on the other hand were less convinced. You didn’t  _ connect _ to people, meanwhile he attributed more value to your relationship than you were willing to give in exchange. He reached out to touch your shoulder. The gesture was meant to be comforting, but you didn't like having him this close. His hand burned like fire.

“Emily was my friend.” You shook off his gentle grip and shot up from your seat, causing the man to bounce back instinctively.

“Really? I heard you kicked her to the curb recently. Something about a falling out over work conditions?” Dominique paused and took a deep breath. You’d been through too much together, and he didn’t come here to throw you under the bus. If you really had something to do with Emily’s disappearance, you’d tell him.  _ Right? _ He paced back and forth, rubbing his neck. “I want to believe you,  _ I really do, _ but with your history; the evidence--”

“ _ What evidence _ ?” you bit back, wincing at the sharpness of your own words. You hadn’t meant to sound so defensive, but it couldn’t be helped: you felt trapped, suffocated by the allegations being thrown at your head. 

“We found your hair in Ms. Lewis’ apartment along with trace amounts of blood. You wanna try and explain that to me?”

You laughed.  _ Of course! _ “It’s pigs blood,” you said. “Last time I saw her, Emily’s new employer had her sit in a tub of the stuff. As for the hair, well, we hugged when I got off the elevator that night.” 

Dominique fell silent at that. Forensics hadn’t confirmed whether or not the blood was human, so he couldn’t argue if he wanted to. Your statement made sense as well --the doorman had confirmed Ms. Lewis left the building alone that night, and you supposedly hadn’t left your studio in days. It set his mind at ease somewhat --but it wasn’t enough for him to let his guard down. Your alibi was all so very  _ convenient, _ wasn’t it? 

He produced a pen and pad from his chest pocket. “This new employer got a name?”

“Stefano Valentini,” you said, willing yourself to leave the fact that he was your new partner out of the conversation. Dom didn’t need to know. Not yet anyway. 

After a few uneventful follow-up questions, Dom left your studio with more questions than answers, but at least one solid lead to follow. Part of you felt bad for directing the attention towards Stefano, especially after making a deal with the artist, but this was never your problem to begin with. Emily made sure of that when she left your employment. What happened to her afterwards was not your concern, even if you had considered her a friend at some point. Relationships were fleeting, and this one just so happened to end in tragedy. You wouldn’t lose any sleep of that. 

**-**

“I see the buckets of blood are back in season?” you said upon entering Stefano’s sanctum and noticing the outrageous amount of blood splattered across his shiny new backdrop. 

Stefano tossed an empty container over his shoulder, which you barely managed to dodge, and let out a modest laugh at your little jape. “White is such a dull colour,  _ mia dolce _ , I just figured I’d liven things up a bit for today’s shoot!”

You waltzed up behind him and rested a casual arm on his shoulder, your other arm gently finding its place on your hip. Your eyes travelled over the canvas with profound curiosity; blood had such an interesting colour. The first layer had all but dried completely and gave the -previously pristine white- sheet a deep, murky brown shade. The next layer was a sticky mess of glistening copper patches, zigzagging downwards. Then finally, the freshest batch of all: erratic streaks of pure, dark crimson dripping down onto the floorboards below. 

“I like it,” you said. “You’ll have to work quickly though if you want to keep these colours from fading.” 

“To work then,  _ mia dolce _ ! Not a moment to lose.” Stefano clapped his hands and threw them skyward, then instantly disappeared into the back to retrieve the object of inspiration for today’s session. 

While you waited for him to return with his set-up, you adjusted the camera settings for natural lighting and opened some of the curtains. This was one of the many things you’d managed to convince him to do: exchange artificial lights for sunlight, combined with a manually triggered flash. You took a few test shots from one of the empty buckets and adjusted the sharpness of the image accordingly. By the time you’d finished, Stefano had returned, lugging in a very conspicuous, human-sized crate. The German lettering on the side gave you an inkling as to what was inside, as there was only one person in Stefano’s circle who spoke German. 

“My good friend Gunther sent me his latest creation,” Stefano said, almost giddy with anticipation as he retrieved a crowbar he’d undoubtedly borrowed from the custodial staff. 

“You can’t be serious!” You should have expected this: the copious amounts of blood, the suspiciously good mood he was in --it all pointed to one thing. “ _ Stefano, _ ” you groaned. Your protest never reached the artist and Stefano simply rolled up his sleeves, then nudged the crate open. As you had predicted, a human body was inside, propped up and protected by little balls of rolled up newspaper. It was expertly plastinated, mind you, but still slightly creepy to look at. 

You shuddered a bit at the sight: you could handle a dead body, but these stuffed ones had such terrifying glass eyes. A small part of you hoped Stefano would opt out of getting a synthetic one like these to replace the one he lost --just because you didn’t know if you’d ever be able to look at him again without a feeling of dread seeping into your veins. You much preferred the way he looked now, even if he didn’t necessarily agree. 

“Not getting squeamish, are you,  _ mia dolce? _ ” Stefano teased, before starting to carefully remove the body from its unceremonious coffin. “I thought you were tougher than this.” He sounded almost disappointed -- though that might have been your imagination. 

“You wish, _ Valentini _ ,” you muttered, moving in to help him hoist the body into the desired position. Stefano smiled --a sight you had yet to get used to. 

Since you started working with him, instead of against him --which had been about a week now-- you’d learned so much. Stefano was  _ \--eccentric _ , for lack of a better word, but you couldn’t say that you minded. His taste was dark and macabre and beautiful in its own way. When he first dropped a dead body on you, you contemplated calling the cops on his ass and even threatened to sue him. You only just managed to stay calm, allowing him to explain the situation. A friend of his, Gunther von Hagens, made sculptures from the newly deceased in the name of science and put them on display in a museum. Some of these pieces were either damaged or otherwise unworthy of such attention, and Gunter shipped them to Krimson City as part of an arrangement he made with the photographer. Stefano had a fascination with Gunther’s work and simply couldn’t help himself, in return, the pictures he made were a form of free advertisement for the exhibit. 

It took some getting used to, but eventually, you saw what he did: the wonders of the human body, eternalized into an art form. The only downside to these peculiar models was that they were a pain to move and position due to the plastination process, which rendered them rock solid.  _ But hey!  _ \-- at least none of them could leave in the middle of a shoot or complain about work conditions! 

You put all your weight into your next pull and heaved at the body, Stefano pushing on the other side as well --but it wouldn’t budge. You let go by accident and stumbled back, landing on the floor quite suddenly. Stefano dropped his model in an instant and rushed to your side.

“Everything alright, darling?” he asked, a hand already reaching to help you up. 

You winced, rubbing your backside as he pulled you to your feet. “Yeah…” A sigh escaped you as you looked over the massive chunk of flesh that remained imposing and unmoved. “It’s a shame murder is illegal, fresh bodies are a lot easier to manoeuvre!” you joked, not seeing the brief but dangerous change in Stefano’s expression. 

“You might be onto something there,  _ mia dolce _ .”

You laughed. Stefano didn’t. 


End file.
